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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28240611">The Path of the Tortoise</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/silriven/pseuds/silriven'>silriven</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>World of Warcraft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Disabled Character, Disabled Anduin Wrynn, First Crush, Flirting, Gift Exchange, Kind of coming out, M/M, Not Quite First Kiss, Tavern in the Mists, Temple of the White Tiger, Travel</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:34:52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28240611</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/silriven/pseuds/silriven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The crown prince of the Alliance struggles to clarify his thoughts as he makes his way across the snowy mountains of Kun-Lai.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Path of the Tortoise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bentclaw/gifts">Bentclaw</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Winters always descended upon the Veiled Stairs with great speed, but would inevitably run their course slowly and surely.  Every cold dawn found Tong the Mender already awake and dressed for the day, an oil lantern in one paw, a mug of coffee in the other, his keen green eyes running up and down the length of the many exposed brass pipes in the basement as he checked the great iron furnace and shoveled fresh coal into its steaming belly.  The device, which was large enough to cross the width of the space, was what supplied the rooms in his Tavern in the Mists with the boiling hot water that fueled the radiators and kept the icy mountain chill at bay.  Sometimes condensed water wouldn’t drain and create an air pocket, causing an unholy racket that would summon Tong with a shim in paw to drain it.  All and all, the system worked well considering its age.  Tong was proud of the small establishment and its ability to not only endure the harsh terrain of the Stairs but thrive well enough to draw all kinds of visitors from across Pandaria.</p><p>Even, surprisingly, the presence of not one but two members of foreign royalty.</p><p>“More tea?” Tong’s deep voice rumbled across the leisure room. “Your Highness?”</p><p>Prince Anduin Wrynn lifted his head, a strand of blond hair falling across his knitted brow.  The human prince sat nestled deep in the back of one of the generously pillowed couches, his right ankle propped on top of the ottoman before him.  He was bent over a small, portable wooden lap desk, quill in hand as he furiously worked on an entry in his leather journal, filling the page with his meticulous, small handwriting.  As Tong approached with the tray, he noticed Anduin snap the cover shut over his own hand to keep the pandaren’s astute gaze from picking out any of the words.</p><p>“Writing about an admirer?” Tong couldn’t help but tease, not unkindly, as he took the prince’s cold cup from the lap desk and replaced it with a fresh one.  Steam wafted from the spout of the small teapot as he poured the strong black tea, the heat deepening the flush that was working its way across the prince’s pale face.</p><p>“No,” Anduin replied, brushing his calloused fingers over his brow in an attempt to smooth his bangs back into place over the white-and-gold silk headband he had taken to wearing. “I’m afraid I don’t have time to consider that sort of thing.”</p><p>The onset of winter weather did not seem to be agreeing with this prince from a green, summer-kissed kingdom.  Anduin always carried a thick, knitted wool blanket with him now as he moved about the Tavern throughout the day, keeping it draped over his lap even during meals.  His fur-less hands reached to curl around the cup’s searing heat even before Tong had finished pouring.</p><p>“Surely a crown prince must have one or two admirers,” Tong mused, not really expecting an answer. “Or at the very least a list of suitors?  Isn’t that how your Alliance handles things?”</p><p>“Mhm,” Anduin let one hand fall over his mouth as his blue eyes drifted down to peak at his writing, still hidden by the half-closed cover. “I haven’t any suitors, though.  Not yet.  My father hasn’t pressed the issue.  He’s either been too busy or too bothered by the memory of his own arranged marriage.  Either way, I don’t have any desire to give him the impression that <i>I’m</i> impatient to get on with it.”</p><p>“No one has caught your eye?”</p><p>“Oh, plenty have caught my eye,” Anduin said with confidence as he let the cover fall open again, dipping the tip of his quill into the inkwell. “Aerin Stonehand, Light rest her soul.  She was a teacher to me during my time in Ironforge.  She was so talented and knowledgeable about swords, though I didn’t much care for the lessons, and I admired her for being the first woman in Magni’s elite guard.  And one time when I was visiting Velen, I met...a...draenei…” Anduin’s voice faltered, his eyes growing distant as they searched the wall behind Tong for some kind of answer. “...I don’t remember her name.”</p><p>“Hm,” Tong let a skeptical rumble roll deep in his throat as his gaze slipped towards the upside down words on the page the moment they were exposed again.  He managed to catch snippets of phrases like <i>uncertain about the fate of the Vale</i> and <i>I must find a way to reach him</i>. “So you have an interest in courting women, I take it?”</p><p>“Yes.  I’ve established that I like girls,” Anduin explained, eyes still trained on something on the other side of the room, the flush in his skin deepening.  Tong craned his neck to take a quick glance over his shoulder to see what was commanding the prince’s attention.</p><p>The Tavern’s other royal guest, Prince Wrathion, stood at the bookshelf, his back to the room as he studied the rainbow of well-worn spines.  Unlike the Tavern’s resident human prince, the winter chill made little difference to the dragon.  He had rolled up the sleeves of his light, silk tunic to his elbows, exposing the honed muscles of his lean forearms, covered with generous ripples of fine dark hair.  His hands were planted firmly on his narrow hips as he drummed his short, dark claws across the folds of the crimson red sash tied neatly around his middle.  Small strands of dark brown hair curled from beneath the edges of his white turban, its gold-trimmed tail draping across one broad shoulder blade.  The faint scent of his amber cologne, tinged by the sharp burn of draconic smoke, made Tong’s sensitive nostrils flare.</p><p>“Well, I suppose that’s a good place to start with courtship,” Tong conceded.</p><p>As if drawn by their stares, Wrathion pivoted around on his heels, the open spine of a book cradled in one open palm as his claws flipped through page after page with the other.  He crossed the floor with long, graceful strides, the silk fabric of his loose, thick-striped pants snapping with the tails of his sash around his knees.</p><p>“Good afternoon to you both.”</p><p>Anduin slammed the journal's cover shut once again with even greater speed than he had for Tong’s approach, just before the red light from Wrathion’s eyes could spill across his handwriting.</p><p>“Good afternoon, Your Highness,” Tong replied with a slight incline of his head. “What brings you to the lounge on this dreary day?”</p><p>“The dreariness.” Wrathion lifted the foot of one boot and set it down on the corner of the ottoman.  Anduin stiffened as if someone had tugged at a string attached to the tip of his skull, his grey-blue eyes darting to glance at the curled, gold-plaited leather toe. “This cold weather seems to be keeping news from both my Champions and my Agents at bay.  I thought I would seize the opportunity to catch up on some research in this lull.”</p><p>The smell of cologne and the charcoal musk that seemed to trail after the dragon now filled the area by the couch, but it was not unpleasant.  Anduin shifted in his seat, both hands now clutching the cup of tea, moving his injured foot an inch or so away from Wrathion’s.</p><p>“What kind of research?” the human prince asked, his voice cracking slightly.  He quickly took a swallow of tea, the steam deepening the red on his nose.</p><p>A small smirk crossed the dragon’s face. “Surely you can hazard a guess.”</p><p>A hot huff of air burst from Anduin’s lips. “The mogu.”</p><p>A satisfied hum vibrated in the base of Wrathion’s throat, sounding more draconic than like a noise any human would or could make.</p><p>“Of course,” Anduin let the pages of his journal fall shut completely as he adjusted his posture again, fingers brushing over his bangs to straighten them. “You speak of little else during our games nowadays.”</p><p>“I’m simply relieved to know that you do, in fact, take the time to listen to me.” </p><p>As Anduin moved away, Wrathion leaned closer, letting his elbow rest on his knee and spine fold forward as he examined a particular spread of drawings on the pages.  Tong recognized the book as one of pandaren fairy tales, but he decided to keep this information to himself.  The dragon’s lithe shadow spilled over the human's prone form as he read. </p><p>“Unfortunately, I seem to have exhausted my resources in this area," Wrathion said with a dramatic sigh. "And I likewise seem to have exhausted this Tavern of its reading material.”</p><p>Anduin watched out of the corner of his eye, his untouched tea growing cold between his cupped hands. “Do your agents not know how to bring you texts from elsewhere?  There are a wealth of libraries all across this continent.”</p><p>“Of course,” Wrathion replied, tipping his chin up a fraction higher as he turned a page. “But, it is rather tedious having to wait for them and more often than not I discover that the texts don’t contain what I’m looking.  Quite a waste of both resources and time, I'm sure Your Highness would agree.  I’m considering taking a journey to the Temple of the White Tiger, to pursue the knowledge there at my leisure.”</p><p>“Oh?” Anduin’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “It’s a poor choice if you’re looking to learn about the history of the mogu.  The Temple has mostly spiritual texts, if my memory serves me.”</p><p>Wrathion released one half of the cover, letting it and the elaborately illustrated pages fall over his thigh as he pressed his claws to his heart, next to the red star ruby he wore below his throat. “Truly, nothing escapes your astute observation, Anduin Wrynn, one reason why I enjoy keeping your company close.”</p><p>Tong cleared his throat, giving the boot on his furniture a pointed glance.  The dragon let his foot drop to the floor with an apologetic smile and folded his legs so that he was seated at the edge of the ottoman, his hip just brushing up against Anduin’s slipper.</p><p>“I do not expect the Temple to add to my knowledge of the mogu,” Wrathion said. “But the winters here are long and I crave a journey to stave off this boredom.”</p><p>“It’s only colder up north,” Anduin retorted, unrelenting. “Wouldn’t you want to journey south, where it’s warmer?”</p><p>Wrathion closed the book over his lap, planting a palm on the other side of Anduin’s foot so that he was leaning over the prince’s leg, red light spilling across the fabric of his lounge pants.</p><p>“You’re forgetting that black dragons carry their warmth with them,” Wrathion said as his black claws traced the pattern on the ottoman’s upholstery, a gesture that seemed almost nervous to Tong’s eye.  “I hear that the snows of Kun-Lai make the Temple gardens quite beautiful this time of year.  I should like to see them for myself.  What about you?  Does such a trip interest you, Prince Anduin?  I hear that snow is a rare phenomenon in your summer kingdom.”</p><p>Anduin leaned back so that his shoulders sank into the comfort of the pillows cradling him on the sofa, at last relinquishing his grip on his tea cup in order to fold his arms over his chest. “...it does interest me.”</p><p>“Excellent.” A thin wisp of smoke curled from between the dragon’s teeth as he smiled. “How soon would you be ready to depart?”</p><p>Anduin’s chin lifted. “How soon would you like to depart?”</p><p>“Tomorrow,” Wrathion replied, without a moment’s hesitation.</p><p>“I’ll be ready before dawn,” Anduin’s reply came back with similar speed.</p><p>With a rustle of silk, the dragon rose until he was once again standing poised like a dancer in his boots.  Anduin’s foot rocked slightly as the dip in the ottoman flattened.</p><p>“Then I shall trouble you at dinner to ensure that the proper accommodations for our traveling party are made,” Wrathion lifted a brow with a not unkind smile. “We wouldn’t want your injury to slow us down so that we arrive before the spring weather melts the snow.”</p><p>“Thank you for your concern, but I think you ought to leave it up to me and my guards to worry about that,” Anduin’s brows knit as his eyes darkened with displeasure, his quick words tumbling from his lips like a burst dam. “You may trouble me at dinner all the same.”</p><p>“Ah, well, if you insist,” Wrathion lifted his shoulders as Anduin’s face turned completely red. "I’m certain that I can find some topic or other to test your intelligence with.  Until then.  Rest well, Your Highness.  Have a pleasant afternoon, Tong.”</p><p>Anduin’s face was completely red and Tong could not help but notice that he stared at the dragon’s back as he walked away, his claws once again flipping through the pages of the book of fairy tales.</p>
<hr/><p>They had gone back and forth about the yak.  In the end, Right made the decision and Left was tired of debating the pros (they would have a mount at hand in the likely event that the human prince’s strength gave out, the extra load-bearer would come in handy on the return journey if they did wind up crating armfuls of books back with them) and the cons (the Alliance would be insulted at the lack of faith in their prince’s strength, the yak in combination with the prince’s limp would slow them down to a crawl, yaks were extremely difficult to move in the event of an ambush).  The Black Prince wouldn’t commit to a decision, but he implied well enough that he considered it a good idea.  So they brought the creature along and enjoyed the sound of her gentle <i>moos</i> and wary snorts as she clopped beside them down the gray stone of the Spring Road.  Left wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she did enjoy reaching over to indulge in the warmth of the soft, thick golden fur whenever she gave the flank an encouraging pat.</p><p>Right was often out of sight, scouting the trail ahead with her crossbow for signs of trouble that often frequented the pass.  The Crown Prince and his pair of guards did their best to meet Blacktalon’s standards of subtlety.  The guards had traded their silver and blue plait armor for well-oiled leathers and the prince himself had hidden his golden blond hair beneath his cloak’s hood and had traded his fine silk clothing for a simpler Pandaria-styled tunic and pants, though any bandit worth their salt would have spotted his injury and heard his cane from miles away.  Wrathion did not seem to mind this cause for delay and took the opportunity to strike up conversation with his fellow prince as they walked, adding their voices, engaged in a heated debate over the decisions Lei Shen had made during his march on Kun-Lai Summit, to the scraping of plait armor.  The racket they made echoed up and down the rocky pass, heralding their progress to any who might be listening.  Warning any who might be listening, Left thought, grimly.</p><p>The traveling party stopped for breaks, often.  It made Left restless and she spent her rest time stretching her long legs by pacing the perimeter of their makeshift camps over and over again.  The sight of Wrathion, though, pleased and at ease, perched on a cold rock sharing hand-molded rice balls filled with pickled plum with Prince Anduin, brought her calm.  Despite the weather, despite the war, despite everything, the lightness of their voices dispelled her worries like a wave washing away footprints on the sand.  The threat of snow seemed to be keeping bandits away...or at the very least the threat of Right, watching over them like a hawk.</p><p>At last they reached the river that would take them through the Ancient Passage.  Wrathion bargained for a set of three sturdy boats.  Wrathion insisted on the following setup: he would accompany Prince Anduin and his entourage in the first boat, while Left and Right followed behind with the yak.  To ‘balance out the weight’, the Black Prince had reasoned, and save on the cost of a third boat.  The guards saw fault in this logic and immediately laid out their objections, which mainly had to do with the Crown Prince’s captive proximity to Deathwing’s Son on a half-frozen river, taking a tone with the young dragon that Left strongly objected to and Right found outright offensive.  </p><p>Distracted by the heated argument that Right and the guards struck up, Left only noticed that Anduin had limped into the boat and unmoored it when it was too late and the boat had drifted away; a distance too far to reach with a well-aimed leap from the dock.  The blond human prince looked back to his dismayed guards on the shore, shoulders shrugging beneath the thick folds of his cloak and gloved palms turned up in a silent plea, face a perfectly trained mask of helplessness.  From his seat clinging to the wooden rail at the rear of the boat, the Black Prince’s red eyes peered out through the shroud of mist that drifted over the frosty water surface, Anduin’s cane drawn over his lap.  He seemed surprised but pleased, which soothed the knots of anger that had taken over Left’s brows and spine.</p><p>By the time Right had gotten her wits together, Left was already in the second boat and unwinding the rope from its tether.  Right’s boots pounded against the damp planks as the pandaren dockmaster neatly stepped out of her way and soon the boat rocked, cold waves cresting in the river as she landed.  With a shove of her boot, they left the two Alliance guards scrambling to pay for and board the third and last boat with an uncertain, resistant yak.</p><p>“They seem to be getting along,” Right commented from her position at the head of the wooden boat, one leather boot on the seat, the other planted on the edge as her strong arms made steady strokes with the paddle as the river took them north.  Cold waves pushed against the hull of the boats, rocking them gently as they rode.  The occasional pandaren miner paused on the shore to watch them as they passed.</p><p>Left hummed in acknowledgement from her position at the rear.  In the boat ahead of them, the two princes sat opposite one another.  Anduin’s freckles stood out in the red flush that darkened his thin, pale face as he worked the paddles, his body lunging forward and backward with each stroke.  From his position manning the rudder, Wrathion lounged on the simple bench as if it were a throne, his chin raised high in the air as he kept an eye out beyond the boat’s prow for stray bits of ice.  Not long after their departure, the sky began to release a light dusting of snow from its iron gray veil.  Damp, white flakes caught in Prince Anduin’s blond hair and the crown of Prince Wrathion’s turban.  The heat of the later quickly caused them to melt, while a crown of white collected on the former.  </p><p>Anduin routinely shifted with discomfort, the strain of his battered, still-healing body sitting for so long on the chilled, wooden bench taking its toll on his discipline and patience.  The boat maintained its speed mostly due to the current being in their favor, which allowed the human frequent breaks to rest or pace the short length to ease the cramping in his leg.  Wrathion’s steady hands guided it through the easy maze of ice flows.  The wind kept their conversation just out of reach.  Wrathion’s shoulders tilted and dipped as he spoke; his clawed, black-tipped gloves gesticulating to drive home whatever point he was making.  Smoke would sometimes escape from his lips to be taken and dispersed by the cold wind, a sign that their talk had taken a heated turn.  </p><p>To Left’s curiosity, the two princes drew closer and closer together with each passing hour, sitting beside one another when they took breaks to snack on grilled rice balls filled with Tong’s pan-fried pork.  Perhaps it was the human’s instictual desire to sit in closer proximity to the dragon’s warmth.  Perhaps it was the dragon’s indulgent desire for an excuse to keep his voice at the conspiratorial whisper that he preferred.  Perhaps it was the strength of the wind.   There were a great number of things that could have caused them to bend towards each other, Anduin’s light, snow-flecked bangs almost brushing the red silk band that decorated the turban near Wrathion’s brow.</p><p>“Careful,” Left said, sharply.  But Right had already noticed the chunk of ice that cut through the river flow like a knife and was strong-arming the wooden paddle to steer them around it.  The rocky face of the mountain loomed ahead, the river flowing into a naturally carved entrance that widened like a dark mouth before them, the entrance to the ancient tunnel that would take them to Kun-Lai.</p>
<hr/><p>The snow-capped gardens of the Temple of the White Tiger were, true to Wrathion’s promise, beautiful in late winter.  Anduin could not help but gawk in awe at the early spring blossoms, pale and pink like frosting, that decorated the dark branches of the ancient cherry trees.  The thatched gold and iron plated roofs of the small meditation spaces that littered the mountain trail before the Temple were laced with ice and snow from the most recent storm, but the paths and benches were swept clean.  Small fires were tended to by the many litters of monks who served and studied under Xuen’s piercing gaze, which Anduin lingered by for brief moments here and there in an attempt to warm his hands.  The human prince meandered through the steep, winding paths, his guards trailing a respectful distance behind, until the chill had seeped into every bone and he was forced to retreat.  Anduin limped, leaning so heavily into his cane that it strained his shoulder and elbow, while the cold mountain wind blew at the rickety wooden bridges beneath his boots.  The gale was so strong, he feared he would be pitched right over the rope hand-guard if he lost stability over his wide-legged walking stance.</p><p>Despite the weather, despite the terrain, and despite his injury, Anduin reached the entrance to the Temple without incident or accident.  Fires roared in each and every one of the Temple’s many brass braziers and hanging blown-glass lanterns filled the stone halls with a warm yellow glow.  Boughs taken from the mountain forests and hung on the walls filled the air with their pine scent along with the sharp incense that wafted from the many small prayer shrines.  Peace washed over him with the sound of pandaren monks chanting prayers, as easily as it would have come behind the stained-glass windows of the Cathedral of the Holy Light in Stormwind City.</p><p>Strength was a virtue Anduin felt he desperately needed as he paused to pray, less out of a desire to fulfill any spiritual goal and more to sit for a good long while and soak in the heat from the adjacent brazier.  He pretended to mediate, shoulders slumping as he stared with bleary eyes at the carving of a tiger face arrested in mid-growl.  Wax dripped from the snow-white candles that adorned the altar over the wood frame.  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his bored guards wandering closer to the fighting ring at the center of the main antechamber, allowing their charge a small measure of privacy with the incense and the small scraps of parchment filling the baskets by the carpet on the floor.  Each slip had a prayer written on it; hundreds of small but urgent pleas and humble wishes from the pilgrims who made the arduous journey up the Burlap Trail to the great mountain.</p><p>Anduin did not hear Wrathion approach.  He first felt the heat from the dragon’s body touch his elbow, then wash over his entire left side until it brought a flush even to his cheek.  The human prince scooted sideways to make room on the pillowed bench, onto which Wrathion sank with a fluid bend of his knees.  The dragon carried a small basket in his hands, covered with a piece of white cloth, below two scrolls stacked on top that he kept in place with his thumbs.</p><p>“I take your sojourn to the library was a success?” Anduin murmured, his quiet voice swallowed by the tapestries in the otherwise unoccupied alcove.</p><p>“Not at all,” Wrathion replied.  A small sigh carried his voice and caused the flames of the prayer candles to flicker. “The information that I seek, unfortunately, remains as quite the enigma.”</p><p>Anduin tugged his hands free of his gloves, curling and uncurling his clammy palms, now damp with sweat.  The blood was returning to his cold fingertips and they now throbbed with it.  Wrathion picked up a scroll and unrolled the delicate paper.  Red light spilled from his eyes over the rows of dark calligraphy.  Anduin caught a glimpse of a watercolor ink drawing of a turtle emerging from the ocean, wrinkled neck turned towards a pandaren prophet standing on the shore with one paw raised in greeting. </p><p>“However,” the dragon noted, the upward lilt in his voice bringing a prick to Anduin’s spine. “There are certainly one or two precious stones to mine within these walls.”</p><p>Anduin undid the gold clasp to his thick cloak, elbow brushing against Wrathion’s arm as he swung the garment off his shoulders.  He murmured an apology as he laid the garment across the other side of the bench.  With a yank, he removed his scarf as well and unbuttoned the collar of his winter-style tunic.  Relief swept through him, along with the cool, incense-perfumed air that swept down his chest.</p><p>Balancing the scroll in one hand, Wrathion removed the white cloth from the basket in his lap and offered its contents to the human prince.  The smell of fresh steamed buns rose, making Anduin’s mouth water.  He glanced over his shoulder to find the chamber still empty and selected a bun, sinking his teeth into the chewy dough.  The sweet taste of lotus root paste met his tongue at the center, bringing a small murmur of pleasure to his throat.  As he chewed, cupping his opposite hand beneath the bun to catch stray flakes before they defiled the shrine’s floor, he looked over Wrathion’s shoulder, pleased with his ability to make out most of the pandaren calligraphy.</p><p>Something about the dragon’s scent was intoxicating.  Anduin had heard rumors that something about the mortal guises that dragons assumed were, by their nature, irresistibly appealing to mortals, one of the reasons why the dragonflights took care to ensure that they kept their distance from mortal politics.  Anduin had seen evidence of this himself as a child, from the way his father, or at least a part of him, had been drawn to Katrana Prestor in a way he never had to any other woman on Azeroth.  Anduin tried to keep this in the forefront of his mind as he resisted the temptation to rest his chin on Wrathion’s shoulder, to bury his nose in the soft silk of the tunic.  He caught himself and finally leaned away, stuffing the remnants of the bun into his mouth and reaching for another.</p><p>Wrathion raised a thick brow at him, his sharp eyes taking note of the nervous way Anduin was now leaning over, resting his forearms on his knees as he pointedly stared at a particular wax drip.</p><p>“I’ve been pondering our conversation from dinner the other night,” Wrathion said, studying a bun he had pinched between his claws. “About illusions.”</p><p>Anduin remained as still as one of the statues that stood guard at the edges of the room, only his jaw working as he chewed. “Refresh my memory.”</p><p>“We argued about what does and does not count as one.” Wrathion’s back uncurled as he lifted himself into a better posture. “To summarize...”</p><p>“Ah,” Anduin’s curt interruption bounced across the space between the rafters. “Yes.  You insisted that all illusions were magical or physical in nature, some shift was required, either through optics or arcana.”</p><p>“I am flattered that you took care to listen so intently to my philosophy, Prince Anduin,” the dragon responded, his words renewing the red flush across the human’s warming cheeks. “As I recall, your argument was in favor of a broader definition, something along the lines of even an expression…”</p><p>“Of course,” Anduin interrupted, again, brushing the sticky pads of his fingers together. “Illusions do not require supernatural or physical phenomena.  It’s a form of deception, for something to appear as it is not.”</p><p>Anduin turned, then, to look at Wrathion, surprised to find the glowing red eyes waiting to meet his own mortal blues.  Wrathion’s expression had dropped into something Anduin had not quite seen before, the lines on his face falling softer, the weariness eased into a kind of open uncertainty.  Anduin knew that his own gaze was locked behind a blankness that bordered on hostility, a look he had honed over the years spent growing up within the unforgiving halls of Stormwind’s noble court.</p><p>A flush blossomed beneath the faint scales on the dragon’s dark, mortal cheeks.  He turned back to his scroll, letting the steamed bun drop uneaten into the basket.  After one last look to ensure that they were, most certainly and definitely alone, Anduin chose to shift closer.  He reached over to take the same bun, finding it with renewed warmth from sitting in the dragon’s mortal hand.  He took a bite and at last allowed his chin to tip across the dragon’s shoulder, letting his weight settle as he chewed.  He heard Wrathion’s breath hitch, a momentary drop in composure, before clearing his throat and bringing the scroll a fraction further into his view.  Wrathion’s body heat soaked into him, flattening the goosebumps beneath his sleeves as he listened to the beating of the dragon’s heart settling into a soothing, calm rhythm.  He felt the edge of the dragon’s cheek press into his temple, the texture of the barely-concealed scales rubbing against his skin in a soft, pleasant way as a purr started to rumble at the base of his throat.  Great brass bells tolled to signal the start of the afternoon’s prayers to Xuen, somewhere else far away from the seclusion and privacy of the shrine that the two princes shared in peace.</p>
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